Alexei
The old textile warehouse sits on the edge of the industrial district, a hollowed-out carcass of brick and broken glass that has been abandoned for years. Graffiti crawls across the salt-stained walls, and the silence of the place makes it a perfect stage for an ambush. I arrive an hour early to position my men, tucking snipers onto the rusted roof and nesting teams inside the shadows of the main floor while another four vehicles circle the perimeter.
As the sun sets, a black SUV crunches over the gravel and pulls to a halt. Tornike steps out, a broad-shouldered silhouette against already darkened clouds, flanked by two armed men who scan the rafters for the very traps I’ve already set.
“Mr. Makharadze,” I call out from the darkness of the entrance. “Right on time.”
“Where is my family?” he demands, his voice tight.
“Safe. Where is the information I asked for?”
“I don’t have any information. I came to negotiate their release.”
I tilt my head, the coldness settling into my bones. “Wrong fucking answer.”
I give Bohdan the nod, and he steps out from behind a rusted van with his rifle raised. Tornike’s hand flies to his holster, but the world explodes before he can clear leather. My snipers fire in a single, synchronized heartbeat, and both of Tornike’s guards drop into the dirt. Tornike manages to squeeze off one desperate shot that pings harmlessly against the warehouse steel before Paul tackles him from behind, driving him into the concrete.
They wrestle him down and jerk his hands back into zip-ties. “Search him,” I command.
Paul strips him of a knife, a backup piece, and a burner phone. I snatch the device and check the logs; he placed a call to Dato only three minutes ago.
“You called him,” I say, showing him the screen. “I told him where we were meeting.”
“Fuck you.”
“How many men is he sending?”
Tornike’s only response is to spit at my boots. “Bohdan. Get him in the van. We’re leaving. Now.”
As they drag him away, I look at the two cooling bodies by the SUV. “Dump them where Dato is sure to find them.”
The drive back to the holding site is filled with Tornike’s frantic promises of our impending deaths, but I tune him out until we reach the interrogation room. Inside, the air is thick with the copper tang of blood and the sour stench of infection. Salome is still bolted to her chair, her broken foot now a grotesque, swollen mess of purple and black that no one has bothered to clean. In the corner, Davit remains hunched over, his eyes vacant.
When Tornike sees the state of his wife, he loses what little composure he has left. “Salome! What did they do to you?” He lunges against his restraints, turning his wild eyes on me. “You fucking monster! She’s just a woman! She has no business in this!”
I let a small, sharp smile touch my lips. “Oh, come on now. She was just playing a game - kicking a ball around. I have no idea how she hurt herself. Maybe she’s just clumsy as shit.”
Salome spits at me, the spray hitting my cheek. I wipe it away slowly, the insult barely registering.
“You monster,” she hisses. “How could you do this to a mother and child?”
I actually laugh at that, glancing toward Oksana and Nadia. “Get a load of this. She’s calling me a monster. In case youhaven’t noticed, lady, I don’t give a fuck. I played my part. I had a peaceful honeymoon planned until your boss sent five cocksuckers to rape my wife and gut me on a beach in Portugal. So you’ll excuse me if I’m not feeling particularly charitable.”
I crouch down to Tornike’s level, but he chooses that moment to spit directly into my face. I stand up slowly, cleaning the moisture from my skin. “You know what? I can tolerate that whore of a wife spitting on me. She’s scared. She’s in pain. I get it. But you? I draw the fucking line at you.”
I backhand him across the face, hard. His head snaps to the side, and then I hit him again on the other side until blood sprays from his mouth. “You think you can spit on me? You think you have that right?” I grab his face and force him to look at me. “The only reason you’re still alive is that I haven’t decided how I want you to stop breathing yet.”
I let him go. His head lolls forward until his chin hits his chest, his body sagging from the beating.
“Bohdan,” I say. “Bolt this piece of shit to that chair. Let’s get this party started.”
They drag him over and force him into the metal chair, the bolts screeching against the concrete floor. They zip-tie his hands behind his back until the plastic bites into his skin, and I nod to Oksana.
“Bring the fucking tools.”
She brings out the bolt cutters, a blender, and a glass. Salome starts screaming before we even touch him. “No! Please! Tornike, just tell them what they want! Please!”
“I don’t know anything!” Tornike shouts, blood running down his chin and dripping onto his shirt. “I swear to God, I don’t know!”